Tea on Baker Street
by melaniec67
Summary: Mrs. Hudson welcomes a young friend and potential tenant to join her for tea.


**Here's a little one-shot story about Sherlock Holmes and someone who seems to me to be very important to him: Mrs. Hudson! The good woman's first name is Martha; right? Have a good read! Please, oh please tell me what you think, how I can make it better etc.**

"**Tea on Baker Street"**

As Martha Hudson laid the Jaffa Cakes out on the platter, she'd have bet money that she was the only person who knew how much Sherlock Holmes loved Jaffa Cakes. Maybe she was the only person who'd ever seen him eat them. After the State of Florida had finished off her husband, Sherlock had come by for tea a few times, and the first time he ate six of them. One after another, he ate them quickly after he drank his tea. First the tea, then the biscuits. He'd smiled, chocolate around his mouth. "I've always loved these things."

If he'd been her son, she'd have spat on her napkin and wiped the chocolate off for him.

She knew how he ate. He starved himself when he had a case and stuffed himself when the case was over. On the days between, he just ate like everyone else. And he loved sweets, loved them. His body never changed, always very skinny. She'd seen something on the telly about men with eating disorders; they have them too. The ones who were bulimic were obsessed with keeping their bodies a certain way; they stuffed themselves and threw it up. Sometimes, she wondered about that one.

When he'd called about the flat, she knew his voice right away.

"Mrs. Hudson, is the upstairs flat available?"

Just like him, right to the point, no niceties.

"Sherlock, dear, so good to hear from you! How are you?"

She heard him sigh, "I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson. I'm alright, nothing new. How are you? How's that hip?"

"I'm doing toribably well dear. My hip's been acting up, but it always does in this weather. You know how it is."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Pause. She could imagine him ticking off seconds, wondering if he could ask about the flat again. Might as well save him the trouble.

"You wanted to know about the flat, did you? Well, you're in luck because it's empty right now. I really do need to rent the place."

"Bless you Mrs. Hudson. I've just got to get out of this pit I'm living in. I'm sure there are students who'd be happy to have it, but I need space. Is it ready? Can I move in?"

He sounded so happy, dear boy. Martha Hudson enjoyed hearing Sherlock sounding this excited. She loved it, but she might have to put an end to it.

"It's ready now, and I do need to rent it. I know I've always told you the flat was here when you wanted it, but I can't just give it to you. Do you understand?"

"Ahh, I understand, of course. I can pay, but I'll need a flat-share."

"I remember that flat-mate you had when I saw you two years ago, Dear, and you've got to do better than that."

The last time he came for tea, Sherlock told her more than he thought he did about his flat-mate. At the time, he was living in a basement apartment that he shared with Joshua, a barista and his two pet boa constrictors and the mice he raised to feed them. It wasn't the snakes themselves that disturbed Sherlock, it was the fact that Joshua frequently let them slither around the floors and furniture. If you were expecting it, he assured Mrs. Hudson, it wasn't so bad, but he had grown tired of having to expect it. He was also tired of living with someone who smoked tiny cigars.

When she heard about this flat-mate, Mrs. Hudson found the whole business with the mice to be very disturbing. This Joshua raised mice so that there would always be baby mice to feed alive to the snakes every few weeks. The bit about them being alive really bothered her, and the part about the snakes swallowing them whole and lying about with a mouse-shaped lump in them, that was too much. And what was a baristra?; seemed like too much title for someone who manned the cappachino machine.

"I'm having no snakes in this flat." Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock. "No pets at all."

"I've learned my lesson there."

"You'll need someone dependable, someone who'll be good for his half of the rent every month."

"Dependable, yes, yes." he sounded like he wasn't pretending to humor her.

Martha knew Sherlock would be good for his half of the rent. She had never been sure exactly how Scotland Yard found a way to pay him, but they did. He told her once they call him a "consultant" when they write his check. When people came to him with a case, he charged them what he thought was right, and "what was right" varied. When Sherlock ran all those tests with blood, dirt and carpet fiber that proved her husband had done what he'd done to those girls, he hadn't charged her anything. She'd offered to pay him, but he'd said no. Maybe renting him the apartment would make it come out even.

"Listen Pet, I know I said I would repay you, after what you did for me I mean."

"Oh, you don't have to. . . . "

She'd suspected he'd tell her she didn't need to repay the favor. It was for show, she knew that too.

"I'm not about to just let you have the place, but I think we can make a deal. Come 'round for tea tomorrow around four and we'll talk."

Well, here it was four-o'clock, and Martha had the tea things all laid out. He'd rather have had coffee, but she'd made tea. Besides the Jaffa Cakes, she'd put out her homemade sausage rolls, a french-stick and cheese, and there were grapes in a bowl on the table. The steps on the stair surprised her; she didn't imagine Sherlock would arrive on time.

"Mrs. Hudson, hello." He hugged her at the door, picking her up a tiny bit and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. He hugged and kissed her, always.

He also always called her, "Mrs. Hudson," no matter how many times she told him to call her Martha. She liked it actually, it was old-fashioned, sweet really. From somebody eles, it might feel overly formal; why did it sound intimate from Sherlock Holmes?

He looked just the same, just the way he'd looked when he'd gotten off the plane in Florida; dark suit, overcoat, purple shirt. His hair, all the lovely curls; it was hard to believe he must go to the barbar and ask for that cut.

She had been right about the Jaffa Cakes, the sausage rolls and grapes, but wrong about the bread and cheese. Martha Hudson cut herself some bread and butter and watched her guest eat.

"I deduce that you're not working" She used the word he always did, to show that she remembered, and that she knew his ways.

"I'm working. Why would you say I wasn't working." He sounded a mite offended.

"But you don't eat when you're working. Up all night, running off to who-knows-where and not eating; I've seen you when you're working."

Sherlock had just bitten into a sausage-roll. He shook his head, but swallowed before he spoke.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, you've seen me working on a case. I have no case right now, but I have been at work on some experiments in the morgue at Saint Bart's."

"The hospital? They let you 'experiment' with the bodies there? Grim, if you ask me. I wouldn't want anyone running any sort of experiments on my remains!"

"Fortunately for us all, there are those who don't mind. Every day, people dedicate their bodies to science and research. Fortunately for me, I have a source at St. Bart's who always knows who these good-hearted people are."

"Oh, that's alright then." Martha said, even though it wouldn't be alright for her, "as long as they volunteered. You can't just go cutting up bodies willy-nilly."

"I wasn't cutting anything up, I was beating a dead man's body checking for signs of bruising. I'll go back tomorrow. My subject today was freshly dead, Molly and I have laid aside a body that will be two days dead by tomorrow; should be fascinating."

"To you Sherlock.," Martha felt herself shudder. "And who's Molly?"

"Dr. Molly Hooper, she's my source at the morgue."

"Your source in the morgue?" It wasn't so much that she didn't understand him. She just couldn't believe he had a source.

"Dr. Molly works in the morgue. When I need a dead body, I go to her. I'm lucky to know her." Sherlock sounded as if he'd never told anyone about Dr. Molly at the morgue.

"Sounds like an interesting friend for you dear. Is she?; interesting I mean?"

She watched him roll his eyes; almost like a girl when he did that. "Please Mrs. Hudson, I know what you're trying to get at. Molly and I aren't romantically involved; never have been. Sorry to disappoint you."

"I can hope can't I? I just want you to be happy."

"You're very sweet." He smiled indulgently.

"Well, so are you, really. Thing is, nobody could tell that from the way you get on. How sweet you are I mean, I feel fortunate to know; I'm one of the lucky few."

"It might be that I trust you more than I must almost anyone." He talked to the tablecloth, but cheekily.

"And yet you tell me almost nothing," She made her voice stern. "Why, I don't even know if you fancy women or men. Really, I don't. And people were always asking me in Florida; did you know that? That lovely young lawyer for the defense, she wanted to know and so did that young man who worked in the forensics department where you did all those blood tests. They asked me because they figured I'd know."

"And what did you tell them?"

"That I knew nothing and they should go and ask you. Did they talk to you?"

"Miranda did, the lawyer's called called Miranda. We had ourselves a chat." Was Sherlock getting coy with her?; she couldn't stand it.

"And?"

He was certainly blushing, she'd never seen this, "and a delightful evening, if you must know."

Ooooh, this was too good! "And?"

"And I'm not saying anything; I never do say anything. As a lady of discretion Mrs. Hudson, I thought you'd appreciate that."

Faster and louder, he was definitely talking faster and louder. Was he breathing harder too? Yes; she'd seen the nostrils flair. With that nose, you couldn't miss it.

She gave it up right there, no more hinting or anything. Wasn't worth it.

"The flat? Do you really want it?"

"That flat is the one place I want to live." He obviously meant it. It was in his eyes, his voice.

"Can you afford it? Every month, I mean? I do need rent every month. Would that brother of your's ever step in if you needed him?"

"My brother has not stepped in on my behalf since I was twelve, and I didn't need him then. Mrs. Hudson, I have never missed rent, and I won't be starting."

"It's not that I think that you will Pet, it's just that you've always told me that you's need a flat-mate to manage the rent here."

"And I would, believe me, I would. This afternoon, I think I met him, just the fine upstanding flat-mate this place deserves. Cpt Dr. John Watson, Army surgeon recently returned from a tour of duty in Afganistan."

"Oh my, an Army doctor," if Sherlock had needed to sway her his way by mentioning this young man's military history, it would have worked. Martha's Grandfather had risen to the rank of Sargent Major.

"Yes. one sent out by Queen and Country to heal its wounded now bundled back home with wounds of his own and needing to flat-share with someone like me."

"So, you're telling me he went over there, got injured, and can't afford to live in London on his own?"

"Yes."

"Appalling, that's what it is!"

Sherlock reached for his second stack of Jaffa cakes. "I totally agree Mrs. Hudson. Besides the bullet in his shoulder and the limp that's mostly in his head, Dr. John Watson hasn't slept well since since he's been home, and I doubt he ever will."

"And you just met him and you knew this. It must be awful being you."

"When I noted the look of exhaustion and learned he was an Army doctor, what eles could I conclude? I've seen the look before; on clients and in my homeless network." He dipped a cookie in his tea.

"I've seen it too," Martha surprised herself speaking, and stopped Sherlock right as he bit into his cookie. "My Granda McGavan was in the Great War when he was sixteen and he had nightmares about it all his life. Bad ones."

"Of course he did, but he never said much about it; did he?"

"No."

"My Grampa on my Mom's side fought in the Second World War, and rarely mentioned it."

Martha walked over to the phone and wrote the figure on the message-pad. It was a fair bit less than she usually asked, and her rent was the lowest on the street as it was. She looked at it once, it seemed fair. When she came back to the table, she placed it, face-down, in front of Sherlock.

When his hands landed on it, he picked it up and turned it over, and she watched his face. His eyes grew round, and his mouth opened slightly. She smiled.

"Is this it?" Sherlock held the paper up, face-out, "you can rent me the place upstairs for this? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He threw his arms around her in a second hug. "Oh thank you, thank you! Dear Mrs. Hudson, I want to move in tonight, tomorrow anyway; may I? It should be easy, some of my things are still in boxes from the last move."

"Please do dear," Martha settled her hair. "I must say, I'm going to love having you around the place. It's not just going to be like hearing someone walking around up there, more knowing someone is home. "

Sherlock smiled. "I'll like coming home to 221B Baker Street. I have hopes for this Dr. Watson."


End file.
